Chameleon

by Ashe Barker

  “What should I offer for these? I want to buy all eight.”

  Eight scarves! What on earth could he have in mind to do with eight scarves?

  “I, er, perhaps…”

  “Is finest cashmere, very fine workmanship. Please, look at the exquisite stitching, sir.”

  The vendor broke into Fleur’s reverie, bundling more scarves at her.

  “Very pretty scarves for your pretty lady, yes?”

  “Indeed, very pretty. I want eight. How much?”

  Fleur was unsure whether he was talking about the scarves or her, not that it really mattered. No way was she going along with this madness.

  “We do not need them. I am sorry.” She tried to hand the bundle of vividly hued fabrics back to the stallholder. He was having none of that.

  “A thousand dirhams each, sir. Very fine work.” The vendor was determined. A sale like this didn’t happen along every ten minutes

  “That’s far too much. A hundred dirhams each, and I’ll take eight.” With a friendly smile, Ethan entered into the spirit of the negotiation, but Fleur knew the vendor had already noted his Tag Heuer watch and expensive clothes. The price would have been trebled already. Ethan would have to bargain hard to get anywhere close to a reasonable price.

  Serves him right. Sadism should not come cheap. Fleur watched dumbly as Ethan progressed the negotiation, responding equably to the stallholder’s heartfelt pleas not to starve his innocent babies, not to break the heart of his wife and parents, all of whom had apparently not eaten for days and had forgotten what shoes looked like. He could accept perhaps nine hundred dirhams for each scarf.

  “A hundred and fifty. And I’ll take ten.”

  Ethan leveled his gaze at the enthusiastic salesman, and Fleur had to admire his skill at this. The stallholder seemed to recognize a worthy opponent too, and reduced his price to seven hundred dirhams.

  “Two hundred, no more than that,” Ethan stated his offer firmly. He made to walk away as the vendor continued to bemoan the parlous state of his nearest and dearest.

  “You buy ten. I make you good price. Very cheap price. Five hundred each. No cheaper anywhere in Medina, anywhere in Marrakesh.” The trader draped yet more scarves over Fleur’s arms, in the apparent hope that this hard-nosed tourist might be parted from a few more dirhams.

  “Two hundred and fifty each, and that’s my final offer.” Ethan pulled a wad of local currency from his pocket and proceeded to peel off two thousand dirhams in notes. He held the cash out to the stallholder. “Ten scarves. So I expect a further discount for buying in bulk. Two thousand for the lot. Take it or leave it.”

  “Ah, you are a hard man. You do not look like a Moroccan but you barter like one. You have Moroccan in your family, yes?”

  “No. At least, not yet.” He shot a sidelong glance at Fleur, whose knees threatened to give out entirely. Her pussy cramped and moistened at his words and she dropped her gaze quickly. It was the work of moments for the money to change hands and the ten admittedly gorgeous scarves to be wrapped and safely tucked under Ethan’s arm. At two hundred dirhams each they were not so outrageously over-priced, though Fleur might have purchased the goods for less if she’d conducted the haggling in the Moroccan dialect of Arabic. Still, her companion had not done badly and seemed content. And they were exceptionally lovely scarves.

  At Ethan’s gesture, she fell in step beside him, strolling back through the labyrinth of souks that made up the medina. Fleur might have expected to have to give directions, but Ethan seemed to know his way, and they passed the journey more or less in silence. Fleur’s head spun, whirling with images both tantalizing and utterly terrifying. She had no idea what occupied Ethan’s thoughts. His expression, each time she risked a peek at him, was inscrutable.

  It seemed that they reached the hotel quickly, each presenting their pass card to the attendant at the outer gateway to gain admittance. Once inside, they stopped in the huge central courtyard.

  Ethan requested his key from the reception staff then turned to Fleur. “Will you meet me at the restaurant or would you prefer me to come and find you?”

  “I will meet you there. At eight o’clock.” She managed not to slip a ‘sir’ in. Only just.

  “I look forward to it. We have much to discuss. Until eight o’clock then.” He bowed to her, the gesture swift, curt almost. She noted he did not offer her the scarves, despite having made it clear for whom he was buying them. Fleur hugged her tummy, gave one last despairing squeeze of her aching, desperate pussy muscles, and headed for her staff apartment.

  Chapter Five

  What was she going to say to him? How would she explain? She had to make him understand that this was not happening. Could not happen. Even an affair was too much to contemplate, though she could have been tempted. Sorely tempted. But the wicked, unspeakable things he had in mind. Now those were quite out of the question.

  Whatever Ethan’s intentions for this evening, Fleur knew she would not be discussing this mad notion at dinner or anywhere else. It would not be spoken of. It was too dangerous to voice aloud. She knew that from bitter experience.

  As she shampooed her hair under the shower in her staff accommodation, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to her wedding day, nearly twelve years ago now. She’d been just eighteen, only recently out of school and not sure what she might like to do with her life. Youssef had offered for her and for reasons she could hardly fathom at all now, she’d convinced herself it would be a good match. He was wealthy and he had a distinguished air to him that she had found fatally attractive. Add to that he was kind, generous, a close family friend. It had all seemed so natural, so right to her.

  Yvette had been horrified at the prospect of Fleur marrying so young, her father only marginally less so. They had tried to dissuade her. They’d begged, pleaded, threatened, cajoled. They had advised her to wait, to study, to travel—not to rush into such a decision. With the impetuousness and arrogance of youth, Fleur had not listened. She had known best. She loved Youssef, or so she’d thought. And he’d loved her.

  Her parents had eventually bowed to what seemed to be the inevitable and the marriage had taken place. Fleur had moved into Youssef’s riad with him and his children from his first marriage, themselves of similar age to her. She’d expected to get on famously with them, especially his daughters Fatima and Sara. Instead, she had been met with a wall of resentment and hostility. She had been shunned by them, largely ignored even by Youssef, treated as an unwelcome outcast. But she hadn’t minded. Or, rather, she had managed to put up with it. Because she had Youssef and he loved her.

  Given this love, what could have been more natural than to express her deepest and most secret desires to him, invite him to help her fulfill them? What man would not want his wife, his young and beautiful wife, to submit to him in all things? Fleur had yearned to feel his firm hand, his stern touch exerting his will over hers. She had made this clear, shy about explaining exactly what she wanted from him, even though it was fairly clear in her head. So she had settled for telling him that she recognized his dominance and wanted to respond to it. That she welcomed it. Her words had been coy, but she’d gotten her meaning across. It would have been far better if she had not.

  She had been wrong. Horribly, fatally and profoundly wrong about Youssef. What she had taken for dominance was no more than insecurity and swagger. Her husband had been a bully—intolerant and overbearing. He’d wanted a pretty young wife as he believed that would make him the envy of his friends and colleagues, but he had no wish at all to make her happy. He had been indifferent at best to her desires and downright hostile to those traits of hers he considered less than suitable. The first time she had tentatively suggested he might like to spank her, he had been aghast and his shock had soon grown to become outrage. He had found her desires both disgusting and unacceptable, described them—and her—as perverted and sinful. If she craved beatings, he’d happily supply them and, as a result, she might learn to behave like
a proper Muslim bride.

  Fleur had grown up in a family where her mother’s Roman Catholic heritage and her father’s Muslim culture intermingled. Her own faith, on the days she entertained any at all, straddled both. But she knew enough of Islam to be quite certain that Youssef’s rage had had nothing at all to do with the teachings of the Prophet and a great deal to do with her husband’s own inadequacies. He was a thug. A frightened bully, who thought he could make Fleur conform to his notion of the ideal wife by beating her almost senseless.

  He had applied this solution frequently throughout all the months of their marriage, and Fleur had quickly regretted her obstinacy in not listening to her parents’ advice. If she had waited she might have seen, might have realized, what sort of a man was hidden under her husband’s urbane, sophisticated façade. But it was too late. Too late even to ask her parents for help, as she had chosen this course in the face of their concerted opposition. Why should they intervene now, even if they could?

  By the time she had been married six months, Fleur was almost completely isolated from her old life. She never left her husband’s home, never saw her friends or family. If they phoned or called at the riad, her husband would make some excuse or perhaps she would. She couldn’t face people. She was miserable, ashamed, could see no way out. And all because she was a dirty little pervert, a whore, a woman who was somehow impure and in need of punishment to cleanse her, to make her fit to live in her husband’s home, to mix with his family.

  It all had ended as abruptly as it began. Her husband had left on a business trip and within an hour of his departure, Fleur had heard a commotion in the courtyard outside. There were raised voices, one of them a man. A familiar voice, calling her name.

  Her father had been there. Baffled, disbelieving, Fleur had peeped from behind the blinds shielding her bedroom from the light, reluctant to greet anyone, even her father, with her face a mass of bruises, her body hunched in pain from her freshly pummeled ribs. She had seen him, tall and determined, almost glowing in the strong midday sunlight, managing to ignore the outraged shrieks of Fatima and Sara as he paced around the courtyard, throwing open blinds as he strode from room to room looking for her.

  Of course, he had found her. It was the work of just seconds probably, then he was in her room, cradling her in his arms and whispering sweet, reassuring words to her, first in Arabic, then in French. His remarks for Fatima and Sara as they attempted to insist he leave had been less choice, but effective. They had rushed off to phone their father, or the police, or the imam. Said Mansouri had been unimpressed by any of their threats. He had simply lifted Fleur in his arms and carried her from her husband’s home. Outside the main gate of the riad, he had placed her carefully in his car then driven her away.

  She never returned. Back at her parents’ home, her mother had treated her injuries and Fleur had taken to her bed. Days later, she’d emerged to learn that her father had ‘spoken’ to Youssef, who apparently had perceived no difficulty in a quick and quiet divorce. Such possessions of Fleur’s as had been left behind at her husband’s home had been returned to her and the matter was closed.

  Her parents had urged her to return to her studies and apply to university. They’d suggested she combine study with travel, maybe attend a university abroad. At first uninterested, Fleur had allowed them to nudge her along that path, agreeing that the UK might be nice and Edinburgh a beautiful city. Paris might have been simpler. She had grandparents and other family there, but the very anonymity of Scotland appealed to Fleur. She knew no one, had no history there. She could start over, reinvent herself. That was exactly what she had done, emerging five hard, long years later as the newly qualified Doctor Mansouri.

  Yvette and Said never asked Fleur what was behind her husband’s violence, and if he ever tried to justify his behavior in any of his conversations with her father, nothing of it ever reached Fleur. But she knew. She knew full well the consequences of airing her submissive desires and she would never fall into that trap again. Ethan Savage was attractive, without doubt a Dominant, and yes, he could make her pussy damp with just a look. But that was not good enough. Appearances could deceive and people were often not as they seemed.

  His hints and thinly veiled promises were evidence of a more welcoming attitude. She suspected he would respond positively to her natural urges. His purchase of the scarves was a clear indication of the way his mind was going, the path he sought to entice her down. But she could not—simply could not—take that risk. He would have to return his lovely scarves to wherever he lived and tie some other woman to his bed. Fleur’s interest in such antics had been well and truly scotched and she was never going there again.

  On further reflection, she might sleep with him, vanilla-style. If he asked, if that was what he wanted, if he would accept it from her. She had had lovers since her divorce, admittedly in the UK, where such matters seemed simpler—not here in Morocco. Even so, they could be discreet and he would be gone in a few days in any case. She had not had a great deal of experience, but enough. And it had been good mostly, fulfilling, enjoyable—and entirely physical. No one had ever engaged her emotions and she doubted anyone ever would. No matter, she was not looking for that. She was happy as she was—independent, respected, doing a job she loved. And she was safe.

  * * * *

  Ethan was already at Le Jardin Français when Fleur arrived. She caught sight of him, lounging against the bar nursing a drink and chatting to the barkeeper. He had his back to her so she was able to observe him unnoticed for a few moments, collect herself before joining him. His hair covered his collar at the back, curling softly from the shower. As always, she could see that he was smartly dressed, his clothes informal but expensive. His short-sleeved navy sports shirt revealed arms that she already knew to be hard, firmly muscled, and lightly tanned. His coloring was paler than hers but not much so. He clearly led an outdoor existence. Despite his subsequent misadventure, she’d been struck by how at home he had looked out there in the desert, as though he found himself frequently in such rough terrain and was at ease in that environment.

  He had broad shoulders, and she could just make out the ripple of muscles as he reached across the bar to pull a newspaper toward him. She watched, amused slightly, as he turned it over and went straight to the back page, the sports news. What would his interest be? Rugby? Motor racing? Cricket? Did he play any sport or was he a spectator? Or just an enthusiast? For herself, she enjoyed playing and watching tennis, and was not averse to a round of golf. Her father loved football, and Fleur entertained a passing interest in the fortunes of the local heroes, Kawkab Marrakech. If Ethan had been staying a little longer, maybe they could have watched a match together.

  Except she knew that he had an entirely different idea of fun. And she needed to make her position on that perfectly clear.

  Drawing in a deep breath, then another, she squared her shoulders and approached him. Perhaps he heard her. Perhaps he sensed her nearness. He turned, his smile of welcome quite dazzling.

  “Fleur, right on time. I like that. I do appreciate punctuality.” He took her outstretched hand and shook it briefly, gesturing to the high stool at his side. He waited until she had scrambled onto it and arranged her long cashmere skirt to cover her legs completely before he offered her a drink.

  “Just water, please.”

  Ethan requested a carafe of iced water and two glasses before turning to regard her carefully. His expression seemed appreciative.

  “You look stunning, Fleur. Cashmere suits you.”

  Heat flamed in her cheeks as the inference in his choice of word hung in the air between them. What an idiot! She had walked right into that one. Why hadn’t she worn something else?

  “Thank you,” she murmured her reply, scanning the bar for any sign of the waiter returning with their iced water. Nothing. She had no excuse not to look at him.

  His dark, warm gaze held hers and her pussy dampened instantly. So much for her resolve to set him straight
. She needed to start by having a stern word with herself, get her wayward cunt under some semblance of control.

  Except that is his job.

  Where did that come from? Her blush intensified as her thoughts spiraled rebelliously into the danger zone.

  “Are you all right, Fleur? You look a little hot. Should I ask if the air conditioning can be adjusted?”

  “No, thank you. I am fine.” Her tone seemed forced, even to her. The clink of glassware heralded the arrival of their water, so she had a few moments to re-gather her composure as Ethan poured her a glass and one for himself. She held her chilled glass between her palms, drawing on its welcome coolness to calm herself. Ethan seemed content to let her relax for the time being, though she knew he could have easily found ways to keep her off kilter. Happily, that did not seem to be his intention. Quite the reverse. In fact, he seemed to be at pains to put her at ease now.

  “Did you finish off your duties in your clinic? You do have a clinic or some such thing here, I assume?”

  “Yes, we do. And I did. Nothing very pressing today. I had plenty of time to shower and change.”

  “I’m glad. The results are worth it.”

  He ran his admiring gaze up and down her body once more, his smile soft and knowing as Fleur’s pussy dampened further. She would stain the delicate fabric of her skirt if this continued for much longer. She shifted in her seat, grateful at least that the dark purple color she’d chosen to wear would help camouflage the worst effects of his scrutiny. For a while, at least.

  He flicked his gaze back to meet hers again. “I understand the food here is excellent—two Michelin stars, I think.”

  At last, something safe to concentrate on. “Yes, the chef is much in demand. You were lucky to be able to book a table here at just a day’s notice. Maybe they had a cancellation?”